


reflection

by beatrixfranklin



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26616676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatrixfranklin/pseuds/beatrixfranklin
Summary: 'you have no idea that the whole time she is straying, finding a palace of her own with the man you let go'
Relationships: Trixie Franklin/Barbara Gilbert
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	reflection

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by my best ever bud and extremely talented writer beth 👉🏼👈🏼🤠

She's soft, gentle, with a naive air. You're hardened by burdens and the cobbled streets and when your paths first cross, you dismiss her, almost.

You welcome her, of course, it's not in your nature not to. She proves herself, at least what you think of her, on that first night, alcohol spinning her mind and turning her stomach.

There are things unsaid, although you can't deny the gradual shift as Cynthia leaves you, in pursuit of the greater good, and Patsy is constantly out until small hours with the Welsh girl you've met in passing. 

The only choice is to let her in. Your heart healing, you allow yourself to be loved, to be cherished. There is a fleeting glance of love, the way she holds your hand when you need it most, the quiet hours where the demons threaten to break back through the barricade you've forced them behind. 

You eventually decide to let yourself fall. Hard. You don't hit the ground, you find solace in her arms, in her gaze. There is peace, however hidden it has to be.

You have no idea that the whole time she is straying, finding her own palace with the man you let go.

At first, the bile rises in your throat, deep, burning anger, not at her, not even at him. At yourself. You let yourself love and be loved. One after another the wounds form, deep and sore, while you mourn someone who still lives on.

The burden lies heavy on your heart, clouding your vision with thick red smoke from a fire that you can't extinguish. You lay awake, finding no solace at all in silence.

It's only when you see her, nose pink from harsh sun, when she holds you tight in her arms one last time, that you realise your chest doesn't tighten at the sight of her anymore.

You tell the man you once loved, the one you prepared to devote your life to, to take the woman who has laid heavy on your mind for years as his own. 

You can't help but highlight the exact things that give you butterflies, even as you say it all, but you make it clear that she is his. 

It turns out that the rest of her life is not the rest of his. The phonecall from Poplar to Italy is yet another wound, and again, you mourn. Although this time, she isn't there to ease the burden, you don't get to see her in fleeting moments and imagine her as yours. 

You come home, expected to be better, to be lighter. Peace and comfort is found in the burgundy hand me down, still soaked in her perfume. There's a spare in the stock cupboard you take for work. The risk of having to scrub away any remaining trace of her is too much to bear- the second hand cardigan tucked under your sheets, clasped to your chest as you mourn the girl who wore it.

More specifically, you mourn what you could have had. With her. 

A mental note, written in scrawls within your mind, not unlike the label within your new found security blanket, that you won't let yourself love. Not like you loved Barbara Gilbert.


End file.
